4.2
July 6, 2017

Timidly, She Steps into her Power.

Timidly, she steps into her power.

First a finger, then a toe.

And it feels amazing. It feels like breathing in God and exhaling the juiciness of her purpose to the world.

It feels like finally being alive after the slow-burning death that used to be her life.

It feels so good, and so wild, and so pure and right—that it scares her to the core.

She panics.

Knees trembling, eyes wide with shock and fear, she lands on the cold tiles of the black and white kitchen floor.

She cuts the wick of her soul’s candle and lets the light go out.

It sputters—then darkness comes around her, thick and limiting like a curtain.

Ah, this feels familiar.

This hiding.

Her light, and growth, and movement being stunted by an outside force.

She marinates in thoughts of doubt and fear—they too are familiar, almost like companions. Re-assuming their pessimistic predictability, her inevitable failure, her worthlessness, her why bother, her saddest silence.

But the breeze picks up—warm and wild, like the harbinger of a hurricane.

She is that hurricane.

She is the promise of summer and all the secrets that can be contained in a single breeze.

She cries out.

The earth mops up her tears.

And this shadowland she found herself in for years—it was juicy, full of pain and teachers, but she cannot linger here. She cannot stay forever. She cannot stay for the simple fact that she does not need to. Beauty, joy, new love, and the fresh skin of unfurling, bursting-forth aliveness await.

She gets up—mud on her knees, leaves stuck in her hair—and she screams, because there is nothing else she can do.

Her primal howl opens the door.

Her pain is holy; it is the portal.

But she need not be married to it; she need not hurt forever. That was never her destiny.

So she sheds her skin.

The guilt. The fear. The shame.

It was all but a catalyst to transform.

And it all comes down to this, she has to make a choice—

Familiar pain

Or

Unfamiliar beauty, love, joy, freedom, and creativity. 

But it’s not as easy as it sounds, because letting go of the old, familiar pain is surprisingly painful. Letting go of the wounds that once seemed like such a big part of her identity is freakin’ shattering. Letting go of being defined by what hurts is shocking, upsetting, and unsettling.

She makes her choice.

She is tempted to stay in the familiar darkness; it calls her name seductively—it reaches out to her, like curls of smoke, but she does not answer. She cannot live in the dirt, and play small, and sell herself short anymore.

Light beckons. Her soul begs to soar.

She follows the pulse of beauty—she chooses love, truth, and being exactly her shining self.

She makes her choice.

So, she steps back into her power, currents of soul buzz around her, and the lively feeling of who she is meant to be fills her body, heart, mind, and soul.

It feels the way spring does—shocking and vibrant, the impossible way everything comes back to life.

And she gets scared again. She falls down again.

She swings like a pendulum between pain and euphoria, between being her true self and the voiceless, obedient creature they told her to be.

This is waking up.

It’s gradual. Sudden. Brutal. Breathtaking. Exhilarating. Excruciating. Amazing.

It feels like being chopped to bits and pieces. It feels like her mask being ripped off by fiery arms she cannot see. It feels like everything cozy and comfortable being ripped out of her shaking hands. It feels like finally breaking through—and letting the fresh tears of her deepest vulnerability lead the way.

It is the molten rawness of being utterly naked to the universe and the absolute trust in something bigger than herself.

This is waking up.

It is a process to be very patient with. To be very gentle with. To take utmost care with.

It will happen a thousand times—the rising and falling—embodying her truth and falling back into the old, convenient lies.

The influx of courage, then being immersed in the ice-cold waters of doubt.

The intense owning of her voice, then zipping her lips back into stagnant silence.

It’s a cycle, and she learns more each time she falls and each times she rises.

It’s difficult and perfect.

It will happen a thousand times, until every moment of every day is threaded with the breath truth of who she really is.

A lioness.

A wildness. 

A wise woman.

A phoenix. 

Divinity, in the female form.

A poetess.

A priestess. 

A softness.

A swirling tornado of utter fierceness.

She must risk it all to go on the journey.

And there are no guarantees.

But, just the nudging movement of the intense wish to be herself, alone, is enough to shake her loose, away from the dreary, drudged-up eyes of caged familiarity, to plunge face-first into the vast wilderness of the unknown.

This waking up, it is a process—a shading.

Steeping like tea, peeling away like wallpaper.

It’s like the slow fade of a sunrise, with steps forward and stumbling steps backward too.

But the fire that keeps her going

Is her singular desire to sit in the potency of her truth

And stay there forever.

She will risk everything for even just the subtlest taste of her soul.

She will risk everything to become just a fraction of who she is meant to be.

That’s how precious it is.

That’s precisely what the rest of her life shall be dedicated to—

The wish

To sit in the potency of her truth.

And stay there forever.

 

~

Author: Sarah Harvey
Image: Flickr/Mateus Lunardi Dutra  
Editor: Yoli Ramazzina
Copy editor: Nicole Cameron
Social editor: Cat Monkman

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